


Faith, Like Wings

by callmeonetrack



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeonetrack/pseuds/callmeonetrack
Summary: Destiny catches up with Kara Thrace. This was written for the femgenficathon 2009 for this prompt: “Some things...arrive on their own mysterious hour, on their own terms and not yours, to be seized or relinquished forever.”—Gail Godwin (born June 18, 1937), American journalist, novelist, non-fiction author and librettist





	

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to my patient betas wisteria_ and rayruz.

The dreams have been coming for a week now. The apartment. The cylon. The mandala. A dark center burning through clean whiteness, revealed like new each time.

Every night is worse than the one before.

Better too.

You don’t like to think about that.

****

“The goddess Aurora.”

You clutch the small figurine, the burnished metal gleaming against the drab olive tent in Camp Oil Slick.

“Take it.” The psychic’s voice is neither compassionate nor conciliatory, but harsh. Knowing. “It's yours.”

You want to protest; you don’t need any more frakking idols to pray to. Just look at where they’ve gotten you so far. The words die on your tongue, however.

You still recognize truth when you hear it: It’s yours. 

You have questions, so many of them, but you won’t ask them. Besides, you’re Starbuck. Playing the role is automatic by now.

“What the hell am I gonna do with this?”

The oracle watches you with steady eyes that hold no hints. “You'll know when the time comes.”

****

You trace the sharp metal edge of a wing _(Aurora has wings where her hands should be)_ as Sam tells you that your mom frakked you up long before Leoben got to you.

It’s not a lie.

You haven’t told him much. Not that he wouldn’t listen if you tried. But Sammy’s so clean. He doesn’t burn.

Maybe that’s reason enough to talk. Time is short now anyway. So you tell him a story.

When you were eight, you poured rubber bugs in your mother’s shoes. Your mother, the marine sergeant, who drilled and drilled until there was nothing left but holes _(circles, ever darkening)_. She was afraid of bugs. It was almost funny.

Almost innocent too, this child’s prank. But you knew better. _(No hands.)_

It was worth it, though, watching Momma swat frantically at them with her shoes, making them jump.

Six hours later, you’re the one jumping at bugs.

****  
When you finally land, still breathing hard and uneven, your bird is clean. No paint, no burns, no holes. You felt the impact all the same.

The gun footage, likewise, shows no bugs. But you know better. You saw the dark silhouette _(both of them)_ , chasing you in circles, burning through the white of the clouds.

The Chief, the other pilots, they’re skeptical. They think you’re crazy. You can see it in their eyes. Even Helo.

Playing the role is automatic. The growl comes easy: _wrong footage, broken dradis._

They don’t even bother to hide their eye rolls. But… the CAG believes you.

Conversation over.

Later, when Apollo turns up at the memorial wall, you wait for the truth. You’ll know it when you hear it.

You joke—or he does, anyway—about where you want your pictures to go on the wall when you’re done here. A deal is made even though you don’t shake hands this time. He tells you he trusts your eyes over dradis any day.

Trust. He won’t ground you because of it. Not now, not when it’s all that’s left between you. He always trusts you, even when he shouldn’t. _(The sun always burns.)_

You could ask him to do it, clip your wings. It would be so frakking easy. And he wouldn’t deny you. Everything else, yes. But not this.

But if you don’t fly, then who are you? If not Starbuck—even this raw, regenerated version who came back from New Caprica—then what’s left?

When you burned your hands on that cursed algae planet, you weren’t sure you’d ever fly again. But you did.

You’re not ready for it all to be stripped away.

****

The Admiral stops you in the hall. He’s polite, probably because the President’s smiling at you both. It’s the first time he’s talked directly to you since he pushed you out of that chair and called you a cancer.

_(You're like a cancer that needs to be removed. You hear her voice every day. And you want her to be right.)_

But all he says now is “What do you hear?”

_Trust._

You play the role. “Nothing but the rain.”

“We’re almost to the finish line.” You don’t miss the pity in his eyes, either. You don’t frakking want it, not now after everything else, so you turn away.

But it’s close enough to kindness—from this stranger who once was a father—that it stops you before you get too far.

Almost there. An end in sight.

You pivot, fishing inside the pockets of your flight suit, and pull out the small statuette. It might be an apology overdue.

“Boss, I have something for you.” You hold it out to him. “I thought that it would be a nice figurehead for your model ship.”

The Admiral takes it gingerly. “Aurora. Goddess of the dawn.” 

_(You’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.)_

“She brings the morning star and a fair wind.” You pause, liking the sound of it. “A fresh start.”

A flashlight pulses behind you, sending patterns, circles of illumination, flashes of white dancing on the bulkheads.

_(He’s coming for you. Soon. He will show you the way.)_

“Thank you. Good hunting.”

You still have a mission to complete.

****

The bugs jump again when you go to climb into your cockpit. It’s already occupied by a ghost.

Your head fills with screams. A cigarette burns a hole in your memory, the dark circle at its tip alight, morphing.

You climb back down to solid ground and wait.

It’s not long before Lee drops down beside you. You don’t look at him right away, because he was always a terrible liar. But… it’s automatic. You play the role. “Feeling sorry for me?”

He doesn’t answer. You know the truth when you hear it.

But then he does, handing you a platitude _(typical Lee)_ about how even the best get rattled and you laugh. It makes it easy enough that you can ask for it now. “I’m not going back out there. I don’t trust myself.”

“So trust me.” His eyes burn right through you. “Whatever it takes.”

The simplicity of it surprises you. For once, you are the non-believer and he is the faithful.

It takes strength but you turn away, groping for the right words. Because you have to make sure. So you do it, you ask, and you get your answer and you clutch it tight, letting the sharp edges poke holes in you. Happier than he’s ever been. Nothing but clean brightness showing. _(The sun always burns.)_

Suddenly, you realize you’ve come full circle with him. Back to the beginning with the finish line in sight. Almost there. You smile.

_A fresh start._

****

You’re in your bird and you’re flying again. The sky is clean and white. You start to believe once more. Maybe your luck will hold out. You’re not quite comfortable, but you’re…copacetic.

And then it appears, ducking and weaving, flying circles around you.

Unable to do anything else, you give chase. Apollo calls for Starbuck on the radio, over and over, but it’s easy to ignore. Starbuck is not in this cockpit. Her wings were clipped. All you have are hands with tender skin.

You grasp the throttle, but suddenly you’re hit. A hole burning in your windshield, the clean air of space rushing in. You shouldn’t be able to feel it, but somehow you do.

Then you’re back in that apartment. The mandala bright as ever on the wall. The cylon looming over you.

_Rise and shine._

It’s automatic. You play the role: _I write my own destiny._

But…

But.

The circle is already on the wall.

_(All of this has happened before and all of it will happen again.)_

Your present becomes your past and your future is unknown. There is only the constant: The sun always burns.

Your mother has been clutching her anger so tightly to her chest for so long, it’s burnished her. Burned a hole clean through. A cancer that cannot be removed. It’s all that’s left. But she doesn’t want your pity.

You run but you still hear her voice every day: _You’re special, Kara. You have a gift._

 _I’m not special_ , you say. You’re not sure you can do it, this thing she prepared you for. You don’t trust yourself.

The circle turns once more. She has faith; she gave it to you. “I know you can do it. You’re my daughter.”

_(What is the most basic article of faith? This is not all that we are.)_

You want her to be right.

She takes your hand. _(Trust.)_ Almost to the finish line. 

You can feel it now, the clean whiteness splashing over you, burning through you, illuminating a dark center.

Momma always said, “Fear gets you killed; anger keeps you alive.”

But you know the truth. They’re two sides of the same coin. You gotta let go of both.

****

You lift your hands _(Aurora has wings where hands should be)_ from the controls.

Under your helmet, your hair rustles.

_(A fair wind)_

You’re ready now.

_(A fresh start)_

You let go.

—fin—


End file.
